Meanwhile the soul of the maiden was thrilling to the Patriarch's tales of early Christian conquests in her islands—at Paphos—at Salamis—of the miracles of the great Paulus, saint and bishop and leader—as her eyes followed along the red-lettered parchment page of the rare volume which the holy man had brought from the treasures of the "Marciana" for her teaching—translating the story from the Greek, which was yet hard for her, into her own softer tongue.
Cyprus had indeed been a favored land in those early days; for the Holy Spirit had commanded by a revelation that Barnabas and Paulus should set sail for Cyprus to preach the new faith at Salamis; and they had taken with them Marcus—their own San Marco!—it was so written in this strange, old book.
"Tell me about him!" Caterina cried, clasping her hands eagerly: "what did he do in my land?"
Every Venetian was familiar with the Patron-Saint of Venice in his symbolic guise, with his terrible, flashing jewelled eyes—as a power who would guard them and confound their enemies, rather than as an Evangelist—although the paw of the fierce Venetian lion rested always on the open gospel-page. But to hear of him as a man, before he was known as saint—young—'sister's son to Barnabas,' setting forth on this mission to Cyprus, made him strangely real to the young Venetian girl; it even brought Cyprus nearer with a tender home claim, to hear of the wanderings of San Marco among those temples of Aphrodite; and his scorn of the unholy worship kindled her soul as the Patriarch told how the young Evangelist had not feared to curse the godless Cyprian city for its idolatry—of the tumult that had been raised by his followers, as they hurled the images of the Pagan gods from their pedestals, ruining portions of the huge, unholy structure as they fell and killing some of those who were taking part in the games. She would visit these vast ruins in the ancient grove of Aphrodite, where giant-trees had grown among the fallen columns, and wonderful vases of gold and silver and alabaster, wrought like finest cameos, had been disinterred from mounds of rubbish to decorate the palaces of patricians.
Of these, antique goblets, some flashing with an indescribable rainbow lustre, delicate as an opal, had already been sent her among the rich gifts of Janus. And so life took on new color for her—historic memories and trifles of the day crossing each other at many points, linking the old to the new, in unsuspected continuity.
"Our San Marco was a hero even then!" she cried; "an early Crusader fighting for his faith!"
"Aye, daughter—as thou and I must fight," the Patriarch answered her with tender approval in his eyes, a shadow of apprehension dimming them before he withdrew his gaze—for of such tender stuff had martyrs been made. "The story of those early days is for our guidance. If trials should come," he added, "cleave but to thy faith and Heaven shall show thee a way."
"I never thought before that one might love San Marco!" Caterina said, as she turned her glowing face frankly to the old man; "he was never a person, but just a grotesque image to me."
"Symbols are for our race in its childhood, for with primitive peoples imagination dominates reason," he answered her; "later we weave a more enduring fabric out of the truth of history—still cherishing the myth—the earlier impulse."
But it was Barnabas who was the true hero-saint of Cyprus; for he had owned estates in his native island and had sold them and given all for the propagation of the new faith; and when, after his cruel martyrdom the fierce spirit of persecution had cooled, and his remains were found interred in a grotto near the city—the divine revelation of St. Peter clasped to his breast—the possession of so sacred a relic sufficed to win great privileges among the hierarchy for the island of Cyprus, in perpetuity—the proud title of Archbishop of Salamis—the imperial staff with the golden apple at top—the cap with the red cross, and many other honors and immunities. It was a long way from the primitive simplicity of the fruitful ministration of José Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, as he had fought for souls in the splendid vigor of his youth and consecration!